


We've Only Just Begun

by SherlockWatson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Episode: Sherlock (TV) Unaired Pilot, Fluff, M/M, pilot!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23492782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/pseuds/SherlockWatson_Holmes
Summary: If the pilot universe had continued into canon, what might have happened on that fateful evening as our boys leave the scene of Jeff Hope's death and head for the Chinese restaurant?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 43
Kudos: 100
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, Sherlock Fandom VS 2020





	We've Only Just Begun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vanshikakumar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanshikakumar/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [Acabamos de empezar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27845482) by [lockedin221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221B/pseuds/lockedin221B)



_“You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle…”_

John gazes at me, amazed, as he listens to me explain how I can possibly deduce so much from a door handle. Obvious, really, but it’s been quite some time since I’ve been able to show off to another (living) human being.

Jeff Hope lies dead on the floor of 221B, Mrs. Hudson is about to have an apoplexy, and a very suspicious Lestrade wants our statements first thing in the morning, yet the look on John’s face says I’ve given him the most exciting night of his life.

Well… I did.

We sit opposite each other in the restaurant, sharing dim sum from a large plate in the middle of the table. John has a habit of trying to feed me everything from his chopsticks. I have very little experience with dates but I’m pretty sure this is what one would feel like.

I realise that John has turned out to be far more useful than I originally thought. One might say he saved my life. Of course, that would be wrong, I chose the correct pill, though his actions still cause a fluttering feeling in my stomach that I cannot identify.

He’s flirting with me yet denying it – he clearly doesn’t know that I’m never wrong. I suppose I’m flirting too (can’t be sure, having never done it before). I’m doing my best to make him laugh and making ridiculous predictions of the fortune cookies. He likes me. Does he like me as a potential flatmate, a friend… more?

Or is he simply trying to get laid?

He takes my hand as we peruse the dessert menu and before I know it I’m offering to share a tiramisu. When he licks his lips I’m suddenly very aware of certain parts of my transport making themselves known.

It only makes logistical sense for John to come back to Baker Street, assuming the incompetent police have removed the dead serial killer. It would save John the tube ride back to his dingy flat and keep me from the inevitable post-case boredom.

When we eventually enter a miraculously cleaned up 221B, John takes off his coat and opens the top two buttons of his shirt, winking at me when he catches me watching him. The heat rises to my cheeks and somewhat flustered (I don’t _get_ flustered) I remove my coat and suit jacket, rolling up my shirt sleeves to my elbows. After hanging John’s coat with mine (I like the look of them together) I take both of his hands, turning them over and gently stroking the fingers until they open up. I find what I am looking for, a small black smudge of gunpowder underneath the skin of his right palm.

‘You don’t want to have that in your hand when we go to the station tomorrow.’ I point him towards the bathroom while I try to be a good host and root around the cupboards for the bottle of whiskey Mycroft gave me one Christmas. I thank any deity that’s listening that I have two clean glasses.

John comes back through the kitchen as I return into the living room, and as we meet in the doorway he takes his drink with one hand and ghosts the fingers of the other across my waist, so gently I barely notice, but a chill runs through me all the same. He smiles and settles into the green leather monstrosity that is the other chair in the room, immediately sensing that the red wingback is mine.

We talk for what seems like hours, about my work and John’s army experience. We talk about Mike Stamford and how we both came to know him. He asks me about the violin, making a very suggestive comment about my fingers that makes me blush (how many times have I blushed this evening?), and I find myself downplaying my musical ability. I resolve to perform for him one day.

The hour wears on, and the sun begins to rise on a new day. The conversation slows down as I spend far too much time gazing into the deep blue pools of John’s eyes. He notices, of course, and I think maybe I’ve made him uncomfortable as he turns and casts his glance over the stacks of case notes and sheet music instead.

‘It’s quite… crowded in here.’

‘Oh… I don’t get much chance to… I mean, obviously I can tidy’, I say, though my expression likely telegraphs my reluctance.

‘No! No, I like it. Makes it cosy, I suppose.’ He turns around to look into the kitchen at the table covered with chemistry equipment and the remnants of last night’s experiment. ‘I take it you don’t use the kitchen table to actually eat?’

‘Experiments and investigations only, I’m afraid. I rarely eat in the house unless Mrs. Hudson brings something in. I should warn you not to look in the fridge.’

‘I won’t even ask’, he laughs, taking a sip of his drink. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, as if he is about to impart some confidential knowledge. ‘Here’s an idea: why don’t you order a mini fridge, clear everything from the kitchen table, and set up a dedicated experiment lab in the spare room upstairs?’

‘Well, I… I thought maybe you were moving in’, I say nervously trying to hide my disappointment. The evening had been going so well!

‘Oh, I am’, John replies, giving me a cheeky smile, ‘I just have a feeling we won’t be needing two bedrooms.’


End file.
